… and woke out of wild magework dreaming into darkness, consumed by incandescent flame.

The pain was just as bad the second time.

Knowing what it was, Barl managed not to panic. Instead she buried her face in her pillow, sank her teeth into its meagre depths and screamed out her torment as her fingers clutched the sides of her mattress to breaking point.

She didn’t call for someone to help her. Lord Danfey was the only mage in the mansion, and he’d never help her. Most likely he’d laugh. Besides, she needed to know how long the binding would punish her and what state she’d be in when the punishment ended. Remaining ignorant was pointless. Only knowledge would set her free.

But the price of gaining that knowledge…

Though it felt unending, in truth the pain passed quite swiftly. More swiftly than before, at least, since she’d not set off the Danfey estate’s border wards. With one final, vicious stab the binding released her. Whimpering, Barl unclenched her fingers, spat out her horrible mouthful of pillow and, muscle by aching muscle, rolled onto her back. Her ragged breathing filled the small cupboard room. Tears slicked her icy face and her raw throat burned with the memory of screams. She couldn’t even comfort herself with a little light. It seemed the oil in the lamp had burned itself up while she slept.

She’d not dreamed of clock-making this time. Instead she’d found herself in the cottage garden with Remmie, down by the duck pond. Together they’d created fantastical, brilliant glimfire constellations for his class. Had played with the magic, the way they’d played when they were children. Laughing. Teasing. No fear. No suffering. Only the pure joy of creation, the splendour of power pouring through them like wine.

For one magical moment, she’d thought the dream was real. Then the binding had woken… and plunged her into pain.

Staring at the darkness, she felt her skin crawl. The thought of falling back to sleep was a gibbering fear. But how was she supposed to stay awake for as long as she was kept a prisoner in this place?

“I can’t do it, Remmie,” she whispered, too tired now to fight the rising despair. “I can’t endure this torment over and over without end. Because it won’t end, I know it. How am I meant to stop dreaming? Does the Council expect me to posset myself into a drooling, mindless stupor?”

She didn’t know the councillors well enough to be sure, but she thought they might. And she thought Morgan Danfey might stay silent to protect himself from their wrath.